


I Am Not Sick

by StarryEyes2000



Series: Christopher Pike/Reader Christopher Pike/Any Ship [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26835742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryEyes2000/pseuds/StarryEyes2000
Summary: Captain Pike has a cold. Or is more going on? And there is a fire on board.
Relationships: Christopher Pike/Any Ship, Christopher Pike/Reader
Series: Christopher Pike/Reader Christopher Pike/Any Ship [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954180
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. The Captain Has A Cold

The intercom chimes. “Yes, Number One?”

“Are you in your quarters?”

“Yes.” I reply

“I cancelled your duty shift for today and tomorrow.”

“What’s up?”

“You’ll understand in about 30 seconds. Good luck.”

“Wait …” I start but the viewscreen is now dark.

As the transmission ends, the door whooshes open and I hear four quick sneezes and an unusually nasally voice call out, “Number One … _sneeze_ … sent me … _sneeze_ … to my … _sneeze_ … room.”

I meet him in the desk area near the door, the area which provides a little physical privacy before entering the living space. There stands the mighty Captain of the Enterprise looking miserable and pale; his hair unusually messy as if he has been running his fingers through it repeatedly; clammy and with a red, irritated nose. Loosening the collar of his uniform jacket and unzipping it, I ask, “No better than this morning?” The only response is a weary shake of his head.

After taking the data pads he is holding in one hand and laying them on the desk, I take off his uniform jacket and steer him to the sofa. “Your plan to run it off didn’t work out as well as you anticipated?”

His only response is that look that turns junior officers to quivering jelly.

“I see.” Leaning closer, I hold the back of my hand against his cheek and then his forehead. “You feel a little warm.”

“I just need to sleep it off.” Sometimes his indomitable force of will slides into stubbornness. “Despite what Phil Boyce says I Do Not Have a Cold,” he adds grumpily before sneezing again and then coughing.

“You stopped by Sickbay?” _That is surprising._

“Why are you keeping the temperature so cold? Computer raise temperature two degrees,” he snaps.

I hand him a blanket. “You stopped by Sickbay?”

“Yes. A wasted trip. I wanted something to help me sleep. I admit I have been tired the past few days. All I got was Phil’s diagnosis of a cold and prognosis of feeling better in three days. Three Days! And I Do Not Have a Cold.”

“Okay.”

“Phil did put on a show checking the news nets and then pronouncing hell had surprisingly not frozen over even though I came to Sickbay willingly and without prompting.” He finishes with a harrumph. And another coughing spell.

I try not to laugh, but despite my best efforts my mouth twitches slightly. His unfailing attention of everything in his surroundings doesn’t miss it, and he frowns. “Guess he learned his bedside manner from reading Dr. Phlox’s journals,” I surmise.

“What?”

“The CMO on the Enterprise NX. He wrote about explaining to Admiral, well then Captain, Archer that he, Phlox, took an oath not to harm patients but he could inflict all the pain he wanted.”

Chris stares at me.

“He was joking.” I add. So much for my attempt at humor.

“That is not funny … at all. Archer probably just needed a little help getting to sleep and got a full exam and then a lecture instead. And a comment about a sedative possibly depressing breathing, whatever the hell that means.” His frown deepens into a scow.

_I. Will. Not. Laugh._ “Take a hot shower, get into some comfortable sweats, curl up in bed, read something boring. That should make you sleepy.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Tea and honey?”

“No. If it ever warms up in here, I am going to finish the work I brought.”

“Things are quiet right now, maybe the work could wait until tomorrow? Or after you sleep it off?” There was that ‘turn to jelly’ look again. Still I plow ahead, “You sound hoarse. Is your throat scratchy?”

He nods. “But I Do Not Have a Cold.”

The door chimes before I can respond. Which was good timing with my patience wearing thin. Chef hands me a tray when the door opens. “Number One said the Captain wasn’t feeling well. I put together a few things for him. The chicken soup is my grandmother’s secret recipe. All fresh, nothing replicated.”

“Thanks, he will appreciate this.”

“Good luck.” Chef adds as he leaves.

“I appear to need it.” I mutter to myself as I walk back to the living area.

I have personally seen Captain Pike direct a multi-hour battle with a 104-degree fever. Stay on the bridge for over 72 hours with a concussion and fractured bones that are splinted but otherwise untreated until his ship and crew are out of danger. I have heard the urban legends about him using his body to contain the blast of an overloading phaser, nearly dying and then going back to work the next morning. Fighting with medieval weapons and not slowing down after several stab wounds. Carrying a wounded man several miles despite his own injuries. Captain Pike can be impervious to pain, injuries or illness. Yet, sick with a minor virus, Chris has regressed, as many human males do, to age six. While still insisting He Is Not Sick.

If needed, I know Captain Pike will instantly reappear and shrug it off. Even if it makes him sicker.

Distraction is my next plan. I set a glass of the orange juice, a cup of green tea and the plate of scrambled eggs on the coffee table in front of him and take a piece of the toast for myself knowing he won’t eat alone.

“I can’t eat, I need my mouth to breathe,” he says, pouting like that six-year-old.

“Okay.” I nibble on the toast and continue, “Chef’s bread is as good as any bakery in Paris or on Vulcan. How did you entice him on board?”

“What?” He asks distractedly after another sneezing fit.

“How did you convince Chef to sign up for a posting to Enterprise? Or did you draft him?”

That prompts a quick chuckle. “Draft him? He’s temperamental enough being here by his own choice. I promised him a state-of-the-art kitchen and a garden with ‘real’ dirt, no hydroponics.” After a few sips and a few cautious bites, he adds, “And I think it amuses him to square off with Number One.”

“’Real’ dirt? That must of have been interesting to explain to Command.”

“I don’t remember mentioning it.” A faint grin. “Captain’s discretion.”

We chat about inconsequential things for a while and as he relaxes, Chris pays more attention to the food and finally finishes most of it.

“Bed or sofa?” I ask.

“Desk,” is the reply.

“No. We had that argument already.”

He stares at me. I stare back. I win this round. “Sofa,” is his admission of surrender.

“If you are going to stay in your uniform at least take off the boots.”

“Whatever. Sit with me?”

I sit and place a pillow on my lap. With a little encouragement he lays down and I tuck the blanket around him. After ten minutes I hear the soft snoring that accompanies sleep with a very stuffy head.

All is quiet for about an hour. Then the ship shudders violently and we both tumble off the couch onto the floor. In an instant, Chris is on his feet and Captain Pike is back. He helps me up as he calls the bridge. “Report” he barks to the ops officer and then turns to me and in a softer voice asks if I am alright. I nod while he listens to the explanation, “Engineering reports an error in the new intermix formula threw us out of warp. We’re on impulse now. Number One is on her way to engineering. He cuts off that transmission without another word and starts another. “Louvier, damage?”

“None. That new intermix formula Command mandated to save fuel starved the right nacelle. The warp field then collapsed rather than performing a slower, measured shut down. They missed something in testing. Commander Reno did warn us.”

“As she will enjoy reminding us over the next month. Restart with the old formula and tell Command they can shove the new one up their …” A deep breath. “And tell command we will send a fix to the new one. I want an update in an hour.” Pike cuts the transmission before anyone can acknowledge his orders as a wave of coughing starts. He sinks down onto the sofa as another wave hits. And another.

“More juice?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Water?”

He nods and adds in a strangled whisper as the coughing subsides, “Ice water.”

I hand him a glass of ice water. He hands it back. “With crushed ice please? Instead of ice cubes.”

“Sure” I answer and hand him another.

“With a straw?” He hands the straw back. “No, a bendy straw please.” He hands two more straws back. “Bendier?” The six-year old has returned. I’m not sure who or what will rebel first, me or the replicator. I hand him another straw. “Perfect.”

“Your cough is deeper. Maybe a hot shower would help with that and relieve some of the stuffiness in your head? Then it would be easier to sleep it off.”

He shivers and sighs. And looks even more miserable. “It’s still cold in here.”

“Computer raise temperature one degree. I am sure Number One and Louiver have the situation under control, but I will get you if they call.” Then, with a wicked grin I ask innocently, “I assume you can undress yourself?”

A grumpy snort is his only reply.

ooooo

I sit on the edge of the bed as he settles in and relay messages. “As you can see, we are back at warp. Number One reports additional scans confirm no damage. Sickbay reports no major injuries, just bumps and bruises plus a couple of sprained ankles. Mia Colt dropped off several communications requiring your direct attention, but nothing needs an answer before tomorrow afternoon.” I smooth the blanket, resisting my inclination to keep asking what he wants or needs. With the adrenalin purged, he now looks exhausted.

Avoiding eye contact with me, he stares intently at the viewport. “You know,” he starts hesitantly, “when I was sick as a child, my parents read to me to help me fall asleep.” Then he quickly adds, “Not that I am sick, but I could use sleep.”

_Just when I think you can’t get any more adorable, you surprise me._ “I can do that. Did you have anything in mind? What is the name of that new novel which sounded interesting?”

He looks up at me. Sheepishly. “I was … thinking … maybe … one of the books they read.”

“Okay. Sure. I’ll check the ship’s library for children’s literature. What did they read to you?

“The Sword in the Stone, War Horse, The Princess Bride, The Three Musketeers, Treasure Island.”

“That explains so much.”

“Excuse me?”

“That explains so much about you – caring for the innocent, fighting for ideals and justice, craving adventure. Those were the stories you liked. Didn’t Admiral Archer name all his dogs after Musketeers?”

“You can quote Dr. Phlox but don’t know basic facts about Admiral and President Archer? What did they teach in your grade school? Anyway, I have copies, you don’t need to download anything. There’s a box in the closet.”

A brief search produced the right box. “Where did you find all these 20th century and ancient books? The Lord of the Rings, Black Beauty, Watership Down, A Christmas Carol. I see the pattern continues. The Chronicles of Narnia. Did your father have you debate the religious symbolism after reading that series?”

“Of course. The books were gifts from my grandfather. He read to me also.”

I keep digging through the box. And pull out a model of an old WWII plane. “Did you build this?”

“Yes. Maybe we could rummage through my things another day?”

Disappointed I give in and climb into bed my arms loaded with books. “Some of these are even illustrated. I’ve never read any of them. What’s your choice?”

“Surprise me.”

A third of the way through A Sword in the Stone, the soft snoring becomes constant and steady. So, this is how you tame a mighty Captain.


	2. I Am Sick

I wake up around 1:00am to sneezing and coughing. Eyes still closed, I reach over and find the other side of the bed empty. A quick glance confirms my guess as the light is on at Chris’ desk. I want to strongly suggest work can wait, but that isn’t fair, at some point, on a busy starship in deep space, something will require the Captain’s attention regardless of how he feels. Instead I get glass of juice with _crushed ice_ from the replicator, add a straw _bent at the correct angle_ and head over to join him.

Leaning over I set the glass on the desk and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He drains the juice in two gulps.

“Did you sleep?”

“A couple of solid hours. Then … well I was awake and decided to get these communiques ready to transmit.” He glances up looking a bit sheepish, “Are you going to scold me?”

I smile, “No.” In the focused light I get a better look at his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes. The concern I pushed down earlier bubbles back up – the cough, the low-grade fever – this ‘simple’ cold is hitting him harder than it should. Despite a sweater over his long-sleeved crew shirt, he shivers now and then. And being Chris, he is ignoring it so I stay comfortable.

“It feels chilly in here, do you mind?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Computer raise temperature two degrees. Can I help?” Continuing to read he again shakes his head and then absentmindedly reaches up to knead the back of his neck.

I move his hand and start gently massaging his neck and shoulders. “Ten-minute break?”

He leans back, closing his eyes and sighing. “Yes please.”

Massage completed, I whisper in his ear, “If you are a good boy and finish your homework, I will read the next few chapters of The Sword in the Stone to you.”

“I’ll be done in 15 minutes.

ooooo

**Day 2**

I wake up to the door chime with an open book on my chest, Chris’ head resting on my shoulder and his arm flung around my waist. Squinting at the clock, I see it is 6:30am, meaning Yeoman Colt is here with something from the overnight shift requiring the Captain’s early attention. Chris doesn’t stir, much less wake up as I coax him onto a pillow and get out of bed. He typically sleeps lightly, and this is one more indication he is sick. Not that it will keep him from denying it.

As the Captain’s Yeoman, no crew member onboard works longer hours than Mia. If the Captain is working, she is working. And she starts her day an hour or more before he does. Yet she is usually cheerful and smiling. Today is no exception. “Good morning. How is the Captain feeling?”

“The same, maybe a little worse. Anything urgent? Or can I let him sleep another couple of hours?”

She hands me a data pad. “Nothing urgent. Number One and I took care of everything but the request from Louvier to test their fix to the intermix formula this afternoon. Lieutenant Scott’s report is attached. And we cannot establish a link with one of the long-range communication buoys in Sector 7. Lieutenant Spock is scanning the area now.”

“Okay.” I get a disc from the desk and hand it to her. “These communications are ready to be transmitted.”

She nods and hands me a thermos. “From Chef, he decided the Captain needs real coffee.”

“Thanks, this will make him very happy.”

“Good luck.” She adds before leaving.

ooooo

A couple hours later I wake to scraping noises just outside the bedroom. Entering the living area, I find the coffee is gone and the caffeine has kicked in. Chris has pushed the sofa against the bulkhead and placed the low coffee table upside down with its legs in the air on top of the sofa’s seat cushions. Now he is pushing the small dining table into the entry way.

“What are you doing?” He stops, looks up, and grins, flashing the dimples. _Okay,_ I think, _he’s expecting me to be annoyed with him._

“Good morning. I slept really well.”

“Good, what are you doing?”

“The coffee was great.”

“Chef will be pleased you liked it. What are you doing?” My gaze lands on an open storage closet. Which now has a bar wedged between the door frame. I point to it. “What is that for?”

“Pull-ups. But I finished those already.”

I gesture at the living area. “Are you getting ready to film an episode for a ‘Home Improvement: Starship Edition’ show?”

“That’s funny.”

“Thank you. What are you doing?”

“Oh that,” he sweeps his arm around the room as he tries to sound nonchalant, “I’m making a hand-ball court. Non-regulation of course, we don’t have enough space for a real one.”

“Christopher, you’re attempting to construct a hand ball court in our living room and your most salient point is that room is not big enough?”

His brow creases. “I sense you are not happy.”

“There’s that famous intuition. Explain.”

“Well …” he stops. He scrunches his face slightly, like he is thinking. Then his face lights up. “I will feel even better after a good workout. But I would be setting a bad example for the crew if I went running through the halls or worked out in one of the gyms since everyone on board _thinks_ I have a cold and may be contagious.” He stops again to gage my reaction so far and then foolishly continues, “Pull-ups are a good warm-up but not a real workout. But I can play hand-ball solo. Or you could play a game with me.” He looks at me, hopeful. And then adds, “Logical, isn’t it?”

A bored Chris rarely worked out well for anyone. “In other words, you just need to run it off?”

He grins slightly. “Yes.”

“Can I call the CMO and get his opinion?”

He stares at me, trying to determine if I am serious. “There is no need to bother Phil, I really do feel better. For heaven’s sake, it’s just a cold.” _Damn_ , he thought, _I walked right into that_.

I try not to look triumphant, but doubt I manage it. “I’ll play one game with you.”

With the game over (even sick he beats me) and the living room restored to its original configuration, Chris heads to the shower. He enters the shower grumpy Chris still in denial despite his earlier admission of having a cold, and emerges needy, clingy Chris. He collapses next to me on the sofa, leans his head on my shoulder and says pitifully, “I’m sick.”

I lean my head on his and reply sympathetically, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

It is hard not to smile at his request, he sounds sad. “I won’t. I promise. When I was sick my mother made toast with cinnamon and sugar. I know it’s not your usual green sludge breakfast power drink,” he looks a little, well, green at the mention of that, “but shall we indulge?” He nods.

He stares at the plate of toast I just handed him. “Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Ah, I hate to be a bother, but my mother always cut my toast into four pieces.”

I get up to find a knife, “No problem.”

“And she cut the crusts off.”

Both accomplished, I hand the plate back to him. He hands it back to me. “It should be cut diagonally.”

I start over and hand him a fresh plate. He takes a tentative bite. “What now?” I ask managing to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

“It needs more cinnamon. And I think my mother used brown sugar instead of white.”

I am finding it simultaneously amusing and annoying to be constantly compared to his mother, whom I have yet to meet. “Sure. Anything else?”

“No, that should make it right.”

After a few more adjustments, he manages to eat the toast despite my clearly inferior skill at making it. Now, he’s ensconced on the sofa, with a blanket, head resting on a pillow on my lap.

“You should feel my head to check for a fever.”

I put down the data pad I am reading and place my hand over his forehead. “You feel a little warm, but no worse than this morning.”

“OK. Did Mia drop off anything earlier?”

“Yes, I have it here, shall I read it to you?”

“Please.” As I draw a breath to start reading, he continues, “I don’t think checking with your palm is accurate, maybe you should check again.”

I lay the back of my hand across his forehead and then against his cheek. “The same, a little warm. Engineering wants to try …”

“My mother always checked the back of my neck. And she is a vet, she probably knows more about how to check than you do.”

I resist the temptation to point out she might also check a dog or cat or horse with a thermometer up their … and curl my hand around the back of his neck. “The same, a little warm.”

“Tell Engineering no, maybe tomorrow. I’ll read Scotty’s report later.”

“Okay. A long-range communication buoy went off-line. Spock is investigating. And that’s all for now.”

“Will you read to me some more?”

“Yes.”

Fifteen minutes later. “Maybe you should feel my head again.”

I do. “No change.”

Thirty minutes later. “I feel warm, would you check again…”

ooooo

Chris calls out from the sofa as I change into a uniform. “I don’t see why _you_ need to go. And leave me all alone.”

“It only should take an hour.”

He pouts. “It’s not fair. I want you here. I _need_ you here. I could declare you unfit for duty.”

“I think that’s the CMO’s call, not yours,” I reply as I tug on my boots.

“Did you know sex stimulates the human male’s immune system?”

“Where did that come from? You are propositioning me? Right now? Seriously? You are unbelievable.”

He looks completely baffled with my questions. “Seriously. I read several articles on the subject – by research scientists _and_ doctors. And you asked what you could do to help me feel better. Several times.”

“Yes, I have.” I could not help laughing. “Very well, when I get back.” Then I add with a wicked smile, “You should drink some fluids and rest while I am gone then. Maybe eat a sandwich. You know, to make sure you are up to it.” I easily avoid the pillow he throws at me as I head for the door.

One hour turned into two and a half, mostly responding to the crew’s inquiries about the Captain. By the time I get back to our quarters Chris is sleeping deeply. I sit on the edge of the bed beside him and cradle his cheek. I love how, when I kiss or touch him while he is sleeping, he reaches toward me without waking. I rest my hand on his chest. And feel a little alarmed. Was his breathing more rapid than usual and somewhat labored? I hold my breath for a few seconds and listen carefully. No, I must have imagined it.

I want to call Dr. Boyce. But I promised not to. And despite our teasing him about his purported aversion to Sickbay, Chris would not push himself beyond his limits unless the situation required it. He had been taking care of himself for a long time now and knew what his body needed. I had trust that, to trust him. And try not to worry.

He opened one eye. “You’re late.”

“I know, sorry.”

“Are you leaving again?”

“No, see boots are off.”

“Good”. He scoots over and pats the spot beside him. Once I remove my uniform jacket and lay down, he curls around me and falls back asleep.


	3. Day 3

The day started badly. And would get worse.

Chris and I have, shall we say, different approaches to housekeeping. I like a ‘lived-in’ look and feel; he prefers not to be surrounded by stacks of books, papers, cast off sweaters … well you get the picture. At first, I thought he was anal and compulsive. I soon realized neatness is a survival strategy for busy captains. With that insight and the challenge of two people living in tiny area, I also embraced neatness (which would thrill my mother if she got the chance to see it, I should send pictures) and if my chaos creeps out, I contain it to a small table in the corner of the living room. Over the past couple of days, the chaos has exceeded its boundaries. Usually when this happens, Chris, who is normally laid-back and good natured, ignores it. Or teases me. This morning he was not laid-back, good natured, or in any way close to a good mood.

“Have you seen the data pad with the report from Engineering?” He asks.

“You gave it to Mia earlier.”

“No, I would remember that. And I definitely cannot find anything in the mess you created on the table.”

Ignoring the complaint and deciding to humor him I reply, “Where were you the last time you had it? Maybe you left it in the ready room.”

He shoots me one of _those_ looks – the ‘give me strength’ look. Then starts to contradict my patently absurd suggestion but is arrested by a coughing fit. And another. And another. I walk over to him and put my hand on his chest. The cough is deeper and again I think I hear faint wheezing. I am about to strongly request he see Phil but hold back. He is not open to hearing that right now.

He finally replies, “No, I was reading it here last night when you got called out.” It comes out a hoarse, strangled whisper.

Having worked most of the night with little sleep, my response is less patient than I intend, “You gave it to Mia. I _know_ this because I _saw_ you give the pad to her and I _heard_ you give her follow-up instructions.”

Chris snorts and rolls his eyes. The combination that means ‘I don’t have the time or patience at this moment to explain why you are so obviously wrong.’ We silently retreat to opposite ends of our quarters, knowing this is a bad path to continue down.

Then the call comes – Captain to Engineering. Starting the next phase of our ‘very bad, horrible, no good day’.

ooooo

“How did we miss this?” Captain Pike asks Chief Louvier and Commander Reno. Spock and Commander Una also join the group.

“There must have been a minor imperfection in the right nacelle’s outer plating. When the warp field collapsed two days ago after the intermix problem, I believe it stressed the area. Time did the rest.” Reno explained pointing to the ever-widening hole as she clicked through the images.

“Time to repair?” Una asks.

“Six to eight hours. More if we continue using the impulse engines.” Louvier answers.

“Which will also be dangerous for the repair teams.” Pike says, mostly to himself, as he weighs the options.

“Captain, may I point out the survivors of the bombing desperately need the shelters and fuel we are carrying. Within the week, temperatures will be below zero (-17 Celsius) during the day and much colder at night. Their shelters are not standard Federation issue, they are living in crude tents. Their species cannot survive those conditions.” Spock adds.

Pike quietly clears his throat to muffle a need to cough. This goes unheard by all but Spock who slightly arches an eyebrow. After a quick but small head shake in answer to that, Pike continues, “Show me our position.”

Spock brings up a three-dimensional diagram and explains, “This is primarily a commercial route for long-haul transports, and it is the fastest route to Zentra II. Traffic is widely dispersed and light. It is also infested with merchant ships …” For reasons passing his understanding, the others find this verb choice amusing. Making a note to ask the Captain about it later Spock continues, “It is also infested with merchant ships that obtain their cargo through deceptive and often illegal and violent means.”

“You mean pirates.”

“I believe that is what I said Commander Reno.” Spock deadpans.

Una and Louvier cannot hold back their smiles. Pike uses this opportunity to cough as if he is disguising laughter. Reno just shakes her head.

“OK. Though we should be able to easily defeat … “ Pike looks at Spock before continuing, “merchant ships that obtain their cargo through deceptive and often illegal and violent means, there is no reason to risk further damage to the ship or the repair crews. Number One find a defensible area which obscures their sensors and park us there. Start silent running protocol immediately, maintain it until further notice. And stay on the bridge just in case. Spock find a way to detect approaching ships without breaking the protocol. Once the repairs are complete and thoroughly tested, we will increase to Warp 7.5 and make up the lost time. Questions? Alright get to work.”

ooooo

I wait for a response to the chime before entering the ready room where Chris will stay until the repairs are complete and the ship is safely underway again in order to be close to the bridge and available in seconds. Even though he could get some needed rest in our quarters and still be on the bridge in a few minutes. I sigh knowing I should stick to attainable goals _._

Holding out a thermos, I apologize. “Peace offering. Sorry I was ratty earlier. It’s coffee – with a little whiskey to tame the cough. Some cultures think it cures everything.”

The humor elicits a small laugh and the man surfaces pushing off the captain. At least for a few moments which is my mission accomplished.

“I’m sorry as well. And I have no alcohol to ply you with in return.”

“Una and Phil emptied the liquor cabinet again?” When he nods, I add, knowing it will reignite their competition, “You need to devise a better lock. Maybe enlist Spock’s help.” Time for some encouragement. “You should start feeling better tomorrow.”

He nods wearily. “Maybe.”

If not for the interruption I would have realized that was an odd reply from my typically optimistic and ‘I am not sick’ Chris. And I might have been better prepared. Or at least asked why he said that. But the door chimes and after permission is given an officer enters. Instead I slip out quietly as he begins, “Captain I need your authorization for …”

ooooo

The fire klaxon sounding on a ship is dreaded even more than a red alert. Maybe even more than a call to battle stations. And not simply for the obvious reason that there is no place for retreat if the fire cannot be contained and access to escape pods is blocked.

Fires behave oddly in space. The ventilation systems cause the fire to spread outward more rapidly than planet-side where gases and air flow, most often oxygen, draw the flame upwards. Smoke and toxic gases can also quickly become a problem for the crew if the ventilation systems are overwhelmed. And despite popular assumption, venting the fire with the vacuum of space is a last, last resort; the one used to clear a path to the escape pods. Because venting causes other types of damage and often renders more areas of the ship than the vented spaces inaccessible and uninhabitable. Plus, it might not be the type of fire which draws fuel from atmosphere.

In zero gravity some solid and liquid fuels are known to reignite and then burn undetected once the initial flames are extinguished. Currently the Enterprise has two large cargo bays filled with solid fuel packs for our humanitarian mission, stored for efficiency and safety in zero gravity.

Not being part of the fire response team and without a general call for medics, all I can do is make sure I have access to a protective mask, ignore my intense need to find Chris – knowing he will be in the middle of it, accept an untrained extra pair of hands will be in the way, wait for instructions and try to focus on work.

After what feels like days and is ten hours, the fire is finally and completely out, the ventilation system has almost cleansed the air, the repairs are complete, and the ship is underway without further incident. Looking haggard and covered with what appears to be black and grey soot, Chris returns to our quarters. Wordlessly he strips and heads to the shower. I pick up the uniform, it’s not salvageable, and I toss it into a bin for later reclamation. In few minutes he emergences and collapses in bed, asleep before he is prone. He periodically coughs and, now I am sure of it, wheezes. But everyone near the fire would have been thoroughly checked by medical, so I remind myself there must be nothing to worry about.

A couple of hours later Chris suddenly jerks awake, sits up, and then crawls to the edge of the bed. The quick and unexpected movement wakes me.

“Lights. Are you …” Before I can finish, I notice the coughing and wheezing has stopped. And he is struggling – a lot – to breath. Realizing I am about to call Sickbay he shakes his head and grabs my wrist. “Need …. “ Tries to breathe. “… inhaler ….” Tries to breathe. “… uniform pants … pocket …” He strangles out, “… now….”

When frightened and hurried, one part of my brain notices, you get clumsy – very clumsy. I find the pants in the reclamation bin. Locate the right pocket.

Break the zipper trying to open it. _Damn, damn, damn._ Clutching the pants, I run for the desk and pull out a drawer looking for scissors – pull it out too hard and too fast and it tumbles to the floor spilling the contents.

Finding the scissors, I try to cut open the pocket. _Damn uniforms and their resistance to tears._ Commanding myself to slow down and focus, I manage to rip the fabric with a pocketknife and several inhalers fall out.

I grab two and run back to Chris, shoving one into his hand. The objective part of my mind notes his chest almost looks concave and I wonder if that is a bad sign. I sink to my knees, sitting in front of him, holding my breath.

With practiced ease he pumps the inhaler to fill the spacer and then takes four individual breaths. I find myself breathing with him. He holds up four fingers and says “minutes.” He starts wheezing a little. His chest fills a little. After four minutes I nod, and he repeats the process with the inhaler and then settles into a more normal breathing pattern. Relieved I sit back on my heels and wait.

“There is a hypospray in a box on a shelf in the closet. Would you get it?” He asks, now able to speak without hesitation. I nod and find it without causing havoc. I also gather up the rest of the inhalers from the floor and stash them on the table by the bed.

He administers the shot while answering my unspoken question, “It’s a steroid. It will reduce inflammation in the airways in my lungs.” Then responding to my fear and concern, he continues, “I’m OK. The rescue inhaler took care of the problem. No need to call Phil. He gave me the inhalers after the fire. At the time I thought he was being overly cautious.”

He tried to smile but the effort was too much. “The best thing I can do right now is sleep.”

I nod as I help him settle back into bed. And then I settle, curled beside him, my hand resting lightly on his chest, counting each breath.

ooooo

There are two additional attacks, each less severe than the previous one. By morning I start to relax. And review yesterday. And scold myself. I should have paid more attention to Chris’ behavior. Even when annoyed with me or in a bad mood, he rarely vents at me.

“OK?” I ask when he joins me on the sofa.

“Yes. Better.”

“It must have been daunting dealing with that as a child – for you and your parents.” He nods. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday morning you were feeling vulnerable?” He shrugs. “Because you dislike feeling vulnerable.” I conclude for him.

“Yes.”

“You know - I’m the one you share that with.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “Sorry, this isn’t the time for that discussion. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. You were right, I am feeling better today. I assume you have questions?”

That makes me smile. “You know me well. I thought your last asthma attack was in high school.”

“As part of the childhood illness, yes. But a respiratory virus can still be a trigger, especially when combined with an environmental irritant.”

“Has that happened after high school but before now?”

“Yes, during a mission 18 years ago. There were explosions and debris and then I developed pneumonia.”

“So, this really wasn’t a simple cold.“

“No, a Rigelian strain. Fortunately, only contagious with close contact so we should avoid a ship-wide outbreak. Phil must have suspected it when he didn’t give me the sedative.”

“Oh, I remember now, he told you a sedative can depress breathing. A more direct clue would have been helpful. But you haven’t had an attack for almost two decades. Why feel vulnerable this time?”

“I was thinking a lot about the time I was first diagnosed. How for a year, as we identified the triggers and the doctors worked to get it under control and find the best management treatment, I spent most of my time inside. I was an energetic, _hyper,_ according to my parents, child suddenly laboring to breathe, confined indoors, whose activity was extremely limited. I hated it. And felt vulnerable. Which I hated more.”

“I can understand that.” Then I connect the dots. “The books, the reading, that helped you get through that year?”

“Yes. Lost in a story I would forget, it was comforting. It reminded me of the things I could and would do when I got better.”

“Hence the books you selected.” He nods. I put my hand in his. _I love these little nuggets that explain Chris. And Captain Pike._ We sit quietly for a few moments.

“Next time, Christopher, please put any inhalers in a drawer by the bed. Why you didn’t is a subject, I assure you, we will be discussing at length.”

**Three Days Later**

“Are you sleeping?” He calls out softly as he enters our quarters after the door closes behind him.

_Really? If I were asleep, his question would have awakened me, negating the reason for the question._ “Go away and let me be miserable in peace.” I manage the maturity of a teenager when sick, rather than reverting to a six-year old. “And this is your fault – me catching this cold.”

Now sitting on the bed next to me, he chuckles and runs a hand through his hair. “Umm, yeah, sorry about that. Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“You need to eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“Something to drink?”

“Not thirsty.”

“Soup?”

“I can either breathe or eat. Not both.”

His face brightens, “I know, a smoothie.”

“I swear, if you give me one of your odious, malodorous concoctions, you will be wearing it.” _He must be impressed I was able to get both of those adjectives out without coughing – I am. Wait – is he laughing? He is trying to hide it, but HE IS LAUGHING! Several colorful and less then endearing terms come to mind. Because it’s his fault I am sick and miserable._

Chris leans over to kiss me. I pull away, “No, I am gross. Don’t you have a ship to run?”

He shakes his head, “Not at the moment.”

“An enemy to slay?”

“Nope.”

“A war to stop?”

“Not today.”

“A universe to save?”

“Did that last year.”

“I’m not good company at the moment,” I protest, feeling and looking wretched.

He smiles – that smile he reserves for me – sits next to me on the bed and snuggles me close.

**Alternate Ending**

He smiles – that smile he reserves for me – sits next to me on the bed and snuggles me close. “I could read to you.”

“That would be nice.”

After kissing the top of my head, he asks, “Little Women or Pride and Prejudice?”

“Little Women.”

“OK, but I’m skipping the chapter where Beth dies because you always cry. Chapter One. Playing Pilgrims. Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents …”


	4. The Captain Goes to Sickbay – Deleted Scene

Phil Boyce watches the doctors and nurses on duty scatter when the Captain enters Sickbay; the medical staff suddenly intently focused on equipment, supplies, each other, or their boots. Enterprise’s CMO takes in their commanding officer’s bleary tired eyes, raspy voice and three quick sneezes in succession. _A cold_ , Phil thinks, as his experienced eye roams over Chris again looking for additional symptoms. _And the rumor mill must be buzzing._

One night on shore leave, when they were both well into an excellent bottle of Scotch, Lieutenant Montgomery Scott observed to the doctor that Captains are like children. Phil would add so are human males when suffering from a minor illness. _Except for myself of course,_ he amends in his head.

“Captain.” Phil greets with a nod. “Were you looking for me?”

Chris glances around the room and mutters grumpily, “Not really, but it appears I have no alternative.” His plan had been to find the most junior nurse, get what he wanted and head to his quarters without the CMO’s involvement. It had been a good plan. Or at least seemed so in the turbolift.

Phil has exceptional hearing but plays along, “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. But as everyone else appears to be keenly engaged in their duties,” he stops and clears his throat in a loud and exaggerated manner alerting the staff he is onto them, “how can I help?”

Chris explains, “I’m feeling a little tired. Run down. Have a bit of a headache.” He shrugs his shoulders as if it is not a big deal. “I thought I’d get a mild sleeping pill and an aspirin. Then take a quick nap.”

Having known their Captain for years Phil hears - I haven’t slept more than three hours a night for days. My head is pounding like herd of buffalo are stampeding through it, I am sick and feel bad enough to come to Sickbay on my own without a direct order. He responds, “I see…”

“I hate it when you start a sentence with ‘I see’.” Chris grumbles.

Suppressing a chuckle Phil continues, “Let me run a couple of quick scans first.”

Chris lets out an exasperated sigh. “On any world in the Federation I could walk into a store and get an _entire bottle_ of aspirin over the counter without needing a doctor’s blessing. Why can’t I do that on my own ship?”

Phil pats one of the diagnostic beds indicating the Captain should sit. Then answers, “Maybe when you are Fleet Captain you will change the rules.”

Chris snorts and gives in to the inevitable.

While he runs the scans Phill calls out to his chief nurse, “Matt, check the nets. I believe there is breaking news.”

With a good idea of where this request is heading, Matt plays along, “Yes sir. Should I prepare Sickbay for triage?”

“Definitely. If I am right, the flagship will be called to duty.” Phil pauses for effect, now having the attention of everyone in the room. “I fear Hell has indeed frozen over.” Another pause.

Chris considers throwing his CMO in the brig for insubordination.

Phil finishes with a flourish. “And pigs are flying. Our illustrious Captain willing seeking medical treatment when he is ill must be a harbinger of other improbable events.”

Matt tries to look serious but laughs out loud. The rest of the medical staff snicker behind their hands.

Chris rolls his eyes and insists. “I. Am. Not. Sick. Just a little tired.”

“Of course,” Phil agrees, pretending to acquiesce. “My mistake. After all I only have eight years of school, eight years of residency and decades of experience. And you have a few first aid courses under your belt.” He snaps the scanner shut. “You have a cold. A nasty one.”

“If I go along with your diagnosis will that get me a damn aspirin? And something to help me sleep?”

Phil shakes his head. “Aspirin won’t help. The fever is mild, I prefer to let it run its course. The good news is you will feel better in three days.” He leans closer and lowers his voice, “And no sedative. It can depress breathing and with this particular virus strain I don’t want to chance an asthma attack.”

Focusing on the no aspirin and no sleeping pill Chris tunes out, missing most of the last sentence. “Basically this past fifteen minutes was a waste of my time?” He asks.

“Of course not, you have a diagnosis, we had a few laughs.” Phill retorts.

“So happy to have obliged.” Chris answers sarcastically.

“Go to your quarters. Rest is the best medicine for you.” Phil adds as the Captain is leaving, “And a little relationship advice – remember you are a grown man and not a six-year-old.”

This time the doctor misses the Captain’s pithy response.


End file.
